


8th and Main

by oihermione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, F/M, HEA, Muggle Life, Post DH, Post Hogwarts, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oihermione/pseuds/oihermione
Summary: The happenings of a small town are widely known to most, and for one Severus Snape, a curious story unfolds. A past student has supposedly returned to the town he claimed as his post-war haven and opened a local shop. Yet, no one has seen this elusive author, despite the booming success of the shop on 8th and Main.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Part 1

8th and Main was a shop that combined all of his favorite things, it had antiques, books, and even a small bakery hidden within it. It defied the usual rules of the small town he had taken refuge in following the war.

Severus was familiar with the small literary circles in the area before the opening of the shop, having been a part of many of them. Now that the shop had opened, they had increased in multitudes, but this did not seem to cause him pleasure. In fact, the opening of 8th and Main caused him great irritation. 

Perhaps he was jealous that a former student could forge an interest in literature and antiques in a way he had not been able to in this small town that he had built a life in. He regularly volunteered at the library and attended the rare gallery walk that individuals would hold in the small meeting house downtown. In truth, he believed he was simply annoyed that the former student had returned to this town at all. 

Despite his thoughts on the woman in question, he sought out to visit the locale on a regular basis. It seemed to be expected that he would be there by most of the muggle town folk, having made himself known as a prominent antiquarian of the area. It was not until years after he had become comfortable in the muggle town that he discovered, to his great dismay, the history of the local dentistry. Once called Granger & Granger, it had been rebranded when one Granger had passed and the other had moved to London to be with her sister.

And that is when he made the irritating connection. 

Considering he had all but disappeared following the war, he was not quite sure what came to be of Hermione Granger. 

It was an impressive shop, he had to concede. An older home in the historic district, converted partially to a storefront; from his research, Granger’s family had raised her under that very roof. In what he had heard around town, Hermione herself now lived in the rear of the storefront. Many frequented the area, in hopes of seeing the elusive author of muggle novels with eerily familiar fantasy-like storylines.

An author. One thing he had always hoped to accomplish, but unable to form the motivation needed to complete a coherent idea. It was unthinkable to be jealous of a former student. Yet here he was, once, sometimes twice a week, seeking out… what? 

The home was built in 1903, Granger had kept the original structure mostly in place. The checkout counter was set in what seemed to be the old dining room, given the old China cabinet that was behind it, now being used for antique decor and collector editions of various titles. Another room contained a fireplace setting that he knew was often used for people to read their work aloud to the public, proudly presenting poetry, prose and the like. At times, it had the aura of a 17th-century French salon gathering, at others it felt like an American Chautauqua assembly from the 1920s. 

Another large room connected to the one with a fireplace is where a majority of the shelves containing multitudes of titles were located, complete with vast displays of antiques. There were other shelves spread about in the room with a fireplace and the old dining room. But this room, this is the room with what seemed to be all used books that Granger, and perhaps many others before or after Granger owned the text, had worn through. 

He found himself frequenting this room most of all, he found an undeniable friend in these used books. A confidante that was tattered with notes in the margins that he too often agreed with. It was his surest assumption that the handwriting belonged to Granger, as it was the same across all the texts he had grabbed. 

It was daunting, walking through the entrance felt like walking into the home of a family member or a dear friend. The open layout with tables, chairs, plush cushions for floor seating and a few armchairs were spread about the room in a random fashion. 8th and Main quickly became a second home to him, the small town bustled to life within the shop. The employees were typically younger, recent graduates and the like. He wondered if Granger herself had hired them or if there was a middleman she used. 

During the fall meetings of his literary circles, he did not hear any stories from the kids he knew were employed there regarding Granger, no one ever caught sight of her, much less spoke with her. 

Severus’ regular trips had caused him to become an organizer of sorts. No one had tried to stop him, so he continued. He began to use the little shop to allow local youth to present their original works to their classmates and the rest of the public, whoever showed up.

He had even asked an employee if 8th and Main could host a large gallery walk. The employee had said they would find out and advised him the very next day that it would be okay but he would have to organize it on his own.

By the time Spring came around, 8th and Main had become synonymous with his own name. The town seemed to think it was a given for the local eccentric to become a fixture at such an unusual place. 

He had initially chosen to ignore who owned the shop in question, but as he became more and more devoted to the shop and its ability to bring out the best in the town, he wondered more than ever before just who Hermione Granger had become. 

He purchased all of her books, thumbing through them eagerly. They were excellent works, but scouring the papers for interviews with the author regarding her life and backstory came up to nothing. Hermione Granger refused interviews, her editor was the face of most publishing debuts. Photographs of Granger were rare, most were her at a young age, he had yet to find one of her that was recent. 

And despite those rumors, he truly did wonder if Granger was living in the back of the 8th and Main bookshop. Perhaps it was all a ruse, opening a shop was a publicity stunt and she was living millions of miles away in one of the many featured destinations of her novels. 

It was the mystery of it that caused him to continue organizing events, giving the locals different ideas of how to increase their love for literature and art in ever-increasing creative respects. He flourished, he had not felt passion for such things for so long. Not only this, but those that were regulars of the shop were becoming more perceptive and impassioned as the months went by. 

Then summer came. It wasn’t as though he had not expected the passion to die some, children needed a break from school requirements, locals receded into their homes or left town for the beaches. The bookshop remained steadily busy, but less lively without the presence of the children. There were still students that trickled in now and again, but even with his suggested ideas for summer projects, he knew the kids would not find the proper motivation. 

One evening, the sun had disappeared and the only lights visible were those of the candles throughout the shop. He had been reading through Granger’s notes on Hemingway, and it was likely hours before he realized the employee who had been working had closed up the shop and left without telling him. The child had likely not considered any issue of leaving him there.

His curiosity began to burn; being left completely alone in the dimly lit shop. What was the worst that could happen? 

He made his way to the dining room with the China cabinet, walking behind the counter, quietly as he could. Deciding it would be prudent to take off his shoes, as they clattered against the old wood floors, he paused at the counter. Slipping them off, he gently sat them on a chair and continued to the only visible area of the shop he had never been to. 

The door behind the counter led to a kitchen. It was rather large, he assumed much of it had been added on to suit the needs of a small bakery. Glancing about, he saw another entrance beyond the kitchen, and so he stepped on. 

This led to a hallway, the end of which seemed to be the backs of bookshelves in his preferred room of the shop. Along the hallway he tiptoed, peering into the only door which was thankfully open. It seemed to be a decorated spare bedroom, it did not seem to ever be slept in. He could see the dust across various surfaces from the dim window light peering in. 

The other end of the hall had a large staircase that led up to… Should he? He had gone this far, what would another flight hurt? Stepping on the first step, it creaked slightly and he flinched. Steeling himself, he went onto the next, continuing each step with a burning sense of curiosity that would not die. 

Reaching the landing, he looked at the first door that stood before him, cracked about a foot open. There was a dim light he could see further in the room. Candlelight, he could tell from the way the shadows danced. He sideway stepped into the room, attempting not to push the door open too much further than it already was. 

Peering at his surroundings, he noticed the large desk with papers strewn across it, pencils, pens, notebooks, and other scraps with notes scribbled across them. He turned from the desk to another entrance within this room. It appeared to be a bedroom, this is where the candlelight was coming from. He stepped in and observed the bed. It was made, but clearly well-used. He nearly cursed aloud when something moved at the end of the bed, but thankfully it was an orange cat with shining yellow eyes in the partial darkness. 

Across from the bed was a large bookshelf, and being who he was, he could not resist. He grabbed the candle in question and looked closely at the spines. It was not long before he found himself reaching for one and settling himself into a small armchair nearby. Not considering anything except the book in front of him, especially ignorant of his surroundings, he flipped through the first few pages. It was another annotated text of Granger’s pen. 

It was intentional that he chose a book that he had read before, he simply wanted to see Granger’s annotations. Reading these closely, he did not hear anyone entering the other room with the desk, the shuffling of papers, or even the small hum of someone recognizing they were not alone in a place they were accustomed to. 

Not until a well-modulated voice spoke and broke him from his introspections.

“Professor Snape, I had heard you made good use of my home downstairs but I had not been made aware you would be moving into my bedroom.” 

He nearly had a heart attack, jumping from the chair, dropping the book as though it caught fire. The woman responsible for this had started laughing lightly but Severus remained tense. 

“I apologize, I did not think---,” he started but was cut off abruptly. 

“No one ever does when their curiosity bests them, now do they?” She approached him slowly, reaching down to pick up the book he had dropped. “This is one of my favorites, but I guess you noticed that with it being up here with me and not down there with you.” 

Staying silent, unsure how to respond, he observed the woman in front of him. She was truly remarkable in appearances as an adult. Her chestnut hair was bouncing about her in a way that exuded livelihood, there were already streaks of gray in it, knowing that Granger was in her mid-thirties, this surprised him but only just. She was wearing a long satin robe, sage in color with beige slippers. There were ink stains all across her left hand. Small wrinkles lined her face, but the true adventure was found in her eyes. They were a dark brown, but it was not the color that intrigued him, it was the way her gaze pierced him like they were looking at his soul, the sort of eyes that have seen many things and left you wondering just what or what they were able to see within you. He compared it to legilimency without the magic; nothing like the x-ray vision Albus Dumbledore had, this gaze was kinder and less judgmental. 

She had started speaking again, “I expect you have questions if your curiosity led you all the way here, Professor Snape. Come now, I’ll make us a coffee.” Hermione Granger turned from him and walked out of the room, peering once over her shoulder to see if he was following. 

Shaking himself, he began to fall in step behind her as they headed back down the stairs and into the hall, towards the kitchen. Finally, he found words.

“Ms. Granger, I apologize for intruding… It was not my intention to break your privacy, you should not feel obligated to answer any questions I may have.” 

“Obligation? Oh no, I was waiting for you. I knew, or rather, I hoped, that it was a matter of time before you showed up with questions if I am being perfectly honest,” Granger said as she chuckled at the look Severus was giving her, he was feeling more and more confused by the moment. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…” 

“I hear the kids talk of the goings-on in my shop, you see. I may not make myself visible but I listen often. You know we have our ways. I was thoroughly impressed when I heard the local Mr. Snape uses my shop for writing workshops, poetry and prose presentations, gallery walks, an array of creative endeavors. I wondered how long it would take you to seek me out,” she busied herself making coffee and let her response sit for a moment. 

He responded without thinking, “Severus, you can call me Severus now. You haven’t been my student for nearly twenty years.” 

“Alright then, Severus,” he could not see her face when she said this but the sound of his name on her lips made him shiver. It was the sound of someone trying out a word that seemed wholly foreign to them, “But you mustn’t call me Ms. Granger, Hermione will be just fine.” 

“Why do you seclude yourself here?” He finally found he was able to ask his first question. 

“Seclusion is a tricky word. I seclude my physical self, yes, but my soul is in these walls,” she gestured around her. “I suppose I don’t show my face to the public often because I would hate to ruin the illusion. I disappeared from this town years ago and I never had any intention of returning until I completed my last book. I had been living in Ireland and wanted to write something completely different… so I came back to my first home.” 

He considered the woman before him, there was truth in her words. Severus realized he had found much of her soul in her books, in the food in the bakery, in the art hanging about the walls, in the antiques that had been collected. They all connected back to the essence of Hermione Granger. 

“So you are here working on something new, will you leave once it is finished?” 

Hermione handed him a cup of coffee then reached for an orange, beginning to peel it with her short nails, one hand still covered in ink splatters. 

“That is a difficult question to answer. I never know where I’ll end up, there’s always a chance I won’t finish and find inspiration elsewhere.” He watched her eat the orange, one piece at a time, mesmerized.

“What was your inspiration to return home? Family? Friends?” He began to sip at his coffee, still wholly shocked that this discussion was occurring. 

Hermione considered him for a moment, she seemed to be appraising him. For reasons beyond him, he found himself conscious of the length of his black hair, the gray that had begun to streak throughout it, the wrinkles lining his eyes, the casualness of his wardrobe, other things a man his age could not control. 

“You were, Severus.” The air around him felt frigid for a period of time. The goosebumps rose on his flesh and his breath quickened, he did not know how to respond.

Thankfully, Hermione saved him. 

“You told our class when in sixth year that fighting the Dark Arts was something that is unfixed, mutating, and indestructible. You went on to say that our defenses must be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. If you have read my books, you have seen the comparison I make to our actions, whether good or evil and our own mental health. I have struggled with my mental health since the years following the war. In your words, I have been attempting to fight this through flexible and inventive arts, so to speak. I left. I traveled. I wrote. I created. I created so many things Severus and I loved each of them with my whole heart, and as time wore on, I felt the pangs of loss less and less,” she paused and sighed in thought. “While I was in Ireland, I received a letter from my mother with the real estate advertisement for the house I grew up in as a child, it stung to see and as I was putting it away, I noticed a familiar name on the back. Your name. And inspiration struck to create something new. So I came back… and simply hearing of your inspiration to the people of this town has… it warms my soul. The writing is messy and I have had a difficult time piecing it together because I can’t answer one question.”

He was holding his breath. This remarkable woman sitting across from him had found this amount of inspiration in words he had spoken so long ago. 

“You are writing about me then?” He asked, unsure if that was what Hermione was alluding to. 

“Of course! I hear the things you organize in the shop, the intense measures you go through to get the youth around here to feel passion in their work, whatever it may be. There is one thing I have not found in my observations and I sorely hoped you would do what you have just done. Let your curiosity get to you and lead you to find me,” she sipped at her coffee and set the cup down. Her gaze unfazed; Severus could not remember if anyone had looked at him the way Hermione Granger was at this moment. 

There were two questions on his lips now and he let one go at random, “Why didn’t you seek me out? I am here too often for it to have been a difficult task.” 

“I have a habit of not subjecting myself to those that I write about unless they come to me, it’s an anthropological outlook, I believe. I prefer not to upset the results of my work by interrupting the natural course of things.” Severus had sat his coffee down too and watched as the woman stood from her chair, her eyes finally leaving his own to take her empty mug to the sink. Acting braver than he felt, he too stood and went to the sink with his mug. 

They were standing centimeters apart. Her eyes pierced him once more and he could hardly hear his own voice as he spoke. 

“What is the one question you have?” 

“What are your defenses now, Severus?” 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continued encounter that eventually must come to an end, or does it?

His defenses. What were they indeed? He had come to let his guard down in every sense in the years following the war. To answer her question in totality, he had none. He rarely used his wand unless he felt it absolutely necessary. Magic had become a burden for him; the association with his history had destroyed any good he thought magic had the potential of being. He discovered new hobbies, he collected, he tinkered, he read, he did many things in his time that distanced him from the terrors of his past. 

Yet he was letting a reminder of his past stand beside him and bring about memories of a distant version of himself that he no longer knew or understood. It did not cause anger, he knew his past self would have been seething to find this witch in his presence. 

And so, his response had been honest. He had considered her for quite some time, and she had let him look on in silence. Perhaps she could tell he was contemplating a response. 

“I… have none in place now. My words spoken then were targeted towards an obligation to defend, I have since discovered that although dark forces may still be in play, in this world and the one I come from, I feel no obligation to defend against them,” this response felt impassive, he paused and collected his thoughts, she still did not speak. 

“Defenses are different in contexts, as you alluded to with your comparison to mental health. I myself have managed to respond to the… aftermath of my past… by letting go of the things that bind me to it. You have created from your emotions, I have… released them, so to speak.” 

She observed him for some time, they had not moved from the close proximity that seemed to bind them. 

“In your… writing of me, are you only mentioning what I have done here or are you using my life during the war?” 

At this, she did respond but it was a question answered with a question and he was becoming flummoxed. 

“What would you rather me do?” 

What would he rather her do? Not write about him at all? Leave the town so he could have his solitary life back? Write a novel length story of his heroism? The idea was laughable. 

“Do what you must to quench your creativity,” he finally answered. 

She began speaking again, and it was difficult to follow with her this near, and though he began to take a step backward she stepped forward slightly keeping the distance. He decidedly stopped trying to evade her gaze and stood still as her lips moved rapturously. 

“I think I can agree with your answer though it is difficult to accept. The man I had heard tales of following the war, and even the professor I knew during the war I could have never guessed to let his defenses fall. Yet here I am, and here you are, letting me speak and answering my questions. If there were any defenses left to you, I feel I would have noticed them by now and that is why I found the question so difficult to answer. I still have trauma reflexes when I feel I am being watched, around large groups of people, or in many other circumstances. I am more observant than necessary of my surroundings, but it does help in writing. Observing people is the best way to discern a story I think…” 

This was not the same Hermione Granger he had taught, this was an experienced woman that had seen too much and had suffered a great deal. He recognized parts of her as shadows of him, but he had chosen a different path of coping. It was then he realized that with her presence and his apparent lack of defenses to her questioning, or even simply existing in the same space as him, was a sign of healing. The trauma of his past was still with him in the form of visible scars, but he no longer feared the memory of them.

“Severus, what were you thinking just now?” She was looking at him with that gaze of knowing all. 

“I… was noting our similarities in dealing with our past. I also had a realization regarding my lack of defenses being a sign of healing. I believe that my face must be more readable at present due to my fallen walls, as you were able to read me that easily.” 

They stood in silence for some time, as she had not responded to him following this. Eventually she turned and sat on one of the bar stools, still watching him, her chin resting in her palm with an elbow on the table beside her. He felt that he was being calculated and could not discern if he was comfortable with it. Regardless of his uncertainty, he did not move from his standing position. 

Finally, she spoke, pulling herself up suddenly and grabbing his wrist, “Come, lets go outside, I don’t think you’ve ever seen the gardens.”

Despite the late hour, he obliged. He had some latent curiosity that had fallen on him as he had never even contemplated the garden behind the shop. 

Watching the woman gather up things by hand, he stood observing in confusion until she turned to exit the room and he followed suit. They walked outside the kitchen doorway that led into a garden room, he saw some tables and chairs here and as she ventured out further into the garden that was the backyard of 8th and Main, he took in the efflorescence around him. 

The home-converted shop sat on a corner; many houses were near but none with yards as lush as this. Two roads that intersected to create the corner known as 8th and Main were easy to consider as polar opposites that met to create an unlikely location for a lively locale. Main Street was active for a small town, people driving up and down it at all hours of the day due to the other businesses and shops located further up the road; pedestrians walking themselves and wandering into the warm aura that the shop front emitted. The side of the house, as well as this backyard was another story. 8th street was not as spry for a road, hardly anyone turned down this way unless they lived along the short road, people rarely walked back here either though to his knowledge the garden was open to the public. The street itself was not well tended to and crumbled at the edges, causing some of the greenery to reclaim the cracks throughout the concrete. 

This yard however, this was less of a garden; now that he stepped into it the simplest terms to describe the mass of flora was beautiful chaos. There were arrangements of all sorts, he recognized cornflowers, irises, and dahlias as they passed through, the recent blooms of all were extremely well tended to, with a small curving pathway leading throughout the entirety of the yard. Hardly any clearings were in sight, excluding the small one that his present companion was headed towards.

One of the items she had collected before they had come outside was a large blanket, and though he noticed she had tucked her wand behind her ear, she had not used it to gather the things she held in her arms, and she was not using it now to spread out the blanket on the ground. Once again, as if the witch had the ability to feel his thoughts, she spoke.

“Using magic in ways not intended for natural means is not generally welcome by nature. I try to complete my daily tasks that can be done with ease without using magic because I would prefer to not let it become a crutch. Nature responds in kind on the rare occasion I do make the choice to use magic and it knows that I have its best interests at hand.” 

The way she spoke and looked fondly at the world around her, even at the large house, bewildered him. 

“Are you able to… communicate with nature?” 

His question shook her from her own stasis of thoughts as she had halted in her actions of spreading out the blanket on the grass. Taking heed of a task that he would not have done in any other situation, he knelt and helped spread it and then pulled his body into a sitting position atop the blanket. His arms folded casually across his knees that he had bent parallel to his chest, and in thought of her words, he let each of his senses take in the beauty of his surroundings. 

She responded to his question by pulling herself down next to him but instead of sitting she lay entirely on her back, staring at the stars in what appeared to be utter adoration, and after a moment, he shifted himself and followed suit. 

“I think anyone can communicate with nature, if they choose to. A younger me would have thought the concept foolish but in my travels I’ve experienced too much to find anything outlandish anymore.” 

His face had turned slightly towards hers when she spoke, he realized how close she was again. Suddenly, memories of similar nights he had spent with Lily Evans flashed across his mind. And he felt lightness around him, these memories did not greet him with frustration any longer, he only viewed them fondly, a past friend greeting him in the present and then moving on to another place. 

Though he may have been facing her when this happened, his eyes looked past her and he did not notice that she had turned her head from the sky, again looking straight into him. 

Words were not conveyed for several minutes and as he processed the moment, he felt that this night was more like a fever dream. The stars above him, the home behind him, the garden around him, the woman beside him, all tantalizing, his mind could not process it all fully. He knew what he wanted to do in the moment but also knew moments like this were oft misinterpreted and he would prefer not to be the person to initiate without certainty. A precarious position he had found himself in, and so he finally broke the silence. 

“Why does no one enter the garden? I notice there are no physical barriers keeping anyone from walking back here.” 

She had not moved her eyes from his until she moved to answer, turning entirely on her side and propping her head onto her palm. 

“That is actually magic I found while studying natural foundations of magic in Ireland. There are many ways magic is cultivated and working with nature in kind is one. If you look closely around you will find familiar magical ingredients that you likely often used in potions, though they are somewhat hidden throughout the garden to emanate the impression of being naturally produced in this location.”

At this comment, he did look around, much more closely this time. She was correct, though he felt bizarrely aware that this had to be next to impossible. Planting magical ingredients outside their naturally grown habitat was not a practice he knew to be possible.

“How?” All he could muster in response because the implications of growing magical ingredients at any location excited him and yet he was close to disbelief at her statement. 

“Nature responds to your requests in kind if you treat it with respect. I never forcibly cultivate magic from nature but allow nature to work through my own magic. It is a shared power, even this house is protected by stronger means than a Fidelius charm.” 

Fidelius’ were once thought impossible to break but that had been proven to be false time and again due to the precariousness of word of mouth when it comes to a single person being truly capable of keeping a secret. He still could not think of how this home was protected in ways stronger than the Fidelius, however, as people entered this home often without any issue. 

“Nature with great power has the ability to ward itself to those who do not come with good purpose, but it is difficult to harness this ability. I binded my own magical properties to the natural… spirit, I suppose is the best term, of the house, as well as with the magical properties that I brought with me from my travels. This combination essentially makes it so anyone who enters 8th and Main will not be for any nefarious means. Those that have the distinct quality of not coming for right reasons as dictated by this combination will have ominous feelings of a varying nature, depending on their supposed reasoning for attempting to enter. In most cases, this causes the person to leave.” 

He desired to understand this branch of magic more, but it did not seem to be the most pressing matter at hand in the moment, for once in his life. He had inched closer to the woman in question and she had returned in kind at some point without his own cognizance, and, she still had not moved her eyes from his own, the dark brown piercing gaze that both tempted him and unnerved him. 

“Severus, are you alright?” 

“I believe… I would like to kiss you.” 

She hummed at him in response, “Well, only if you would like.” 

And so, he did. 

There was no reason to make anyone aware of the nature of their relationship, though purportedly obvious; and yet the majority of the small town had nothing but talk of it for weeks when it was discovered that he had moved in to the shop and his own small home had been converted into a large antiques show hall. 

Yet the town likely would have never known, had Hermione had not taken to occasional appearances in public now that she had Severus to keep her company. They traveled near and far, learned from one another and the outside world, collected magic from all around and created a bond together sealed in nature as a love purer than what most could attest to witnessing, much less having. 

If anyone were to ask months or years down the line how they had happened to fall in love so quickly, so easily, so suddenly, his simple answer would have been that it was not so. He had fallen in love with the shop on 8th and Main first, a very natural extension to the remarkable woman that is Hermione Granger. 


End file.
